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Dear Bully

I came home late on the bus after band practice. I prayed that Pete and his pals wouldn’t still be waiting. But there they were, leaning against a hedge across from the bus stop.

This time, they didn’t chase me. Ronnie and McKay grabbed me and started to pull me down the block. Pete led the way. They didn’t say a word.

“Where are we going, guys?” I said. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

We crossed the street. Ronnie and McKay gripped me so tightly, my shoulders ached. My heart began to pound.

“Let’s talk this over,” I said. “I’ll use small words so you can understand.”

My jokes weren’t going over. Big surprise.

They dragged me up a gravel driveway. The tall, gray house at the top of the drive was nearly hidden in the shadows of trees. But I recognized it.

Mr. Hartman’s house.

Mr. Hartman was an old man who had died two weeks before. But neighbors said they could still hear him screaming. They said they heard frightening howls and shrieks coming from his house late at night.

Everyone knew the house was haunted. It was even written up in the newspaper. The police warned people to stay away until they figured out where those horrible cries were coming from.

Even the lawn cutters refused to mow his lawn. The grass was halfway up to my knees.

Low clouds covered the sun. It grew dark as night. The front windows of the house were solid black.

Pete and Ronnie gave me a hard push onto the front stoop. “Wh-what do you want?” I stammered. “Why did you bring me here?”

“Go inside,” Pete growled. “Go say hi to Mr. Hartman.”

“He’s waiting for you in there,” Ronnie added.

I felt my throat tighten. I started to choke. “No, please—” I started.

They shoved me to the door. “You really think the house is haunted?” McKay asked.

I nodded. For once, I didn’t make a joke. “Yes. Everyone knows Mr. Hartman’s ghost is in there.”

“Well, go shake hands with him,” Pete said. “Ask him why he screams every night.”

“How long do I have to stay in there?” I asked in a trembling voice.

“All night,” Pete said. “We’ll come get you in the morning.”

“No. Please—” I begged.

Ronnie pushed open the front door, and they shoved me inside. I staggered a few steps. The front door slammed hard behind me. The sound made me jump.

The house was damp and hot and had a sour smell. Kind of like spoiled milk. I blinked, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.

I took a deep breath. Yes, I was really afraid. Maybe there wasn’t a screaming ghost in here. But I didn’t like standing inside a dead man’s house in the dark.

What should I do?

What should I do about these three guys who were on my case every day?

I glanced around the room, thinking hard. Too dark to see anything. It was all a brown-black blur.

A few minutes went by. I felt a trickle of sweat roll down my cheek.

Heart pounding, I moved to the front window. And then I let out a scream. A high, shrill scream that rang off the walls.

I brought my face close to the glass. And screamed again. A frantic, frightened shriek.

“Help me!” I wailed. “Please—help me!”

I could see Pete, Ronnie, and McKay on the lawn. They froze and their eyes bulged when they heard my screams.

“Help!” I shouted. “It’s got me! Ohhh, help me!”

I saw them take a few steps back.

“It hurts!” I wailed. “It hurts! Help me! It really hurts!”

Squinting through the window, I saw them take off running. Gravel flew up from the driveway as the three of them thundered to the street. They turned and disappeared into the darkness.

I took a moment to catch my breath. My throat felt sore from shrieking. But I had a wide grin on my face.

No. I hadn’t seen a ghost. Nothing had grabbed me in the dark.

My screams were just a joke. I was a funny guy, remember.

And a good screamer. A talent I had just discovered.

Sometimes a funny trick or a joke will help you a lot. The next afternoon, the three boys weren’t waiting for me at the bus stop. They never waited for me there again.

I saw them in school. Sometimes they nodded at me or muttered “Hi.” But we never really talked. We definitely never talked about the haunted house.

I’ve been a funny guy ever since. But I’m not sure I could still scream so well.

I leave the screams for the stories I write.